Page 20 of Crimson Curse
His jaw flexes, and I see the crack in his armor. The part of him that still believes love is dangerous, that attachment is weakness, and that everyone he cares about becomes a target. The part that knows the price of loving a man like him. But I also see wonder and hope. The dawning realization that life continues despite death, that love persists despite loss, and that the future stretches before us bright with possibility.
“I’ll deal with Irina,” he murmurs. “But for now, I’ll protect you and our child. With everything I am.”
Relief swells inside me. He pulls me into his arms, his hand splaying wide at the small of my back, claiming me and our baby. His chest is solid against mine, his heartbeat steady, and for the first time since I suspected the truth, the knot in my stomach loosens.
I inhale slowly taking a deep breath. I don’t want to ruin the moment, but I have to tell him the rest. “Viktor claimed he wanted to marry me,” I murmur, the words bitter as poison on my tongue. “He's delusional. He insisted he'd raise the baby as his own, declared that you're weak, and that he'd end you andtake everything. He wants to rule with me by his side and wants to use our child as a pawn in his twisted game.”
The memory of those hours in captivity floods back with nauseating clarity. Viktor's breath in my ear as he whispered his sick fantasies. The way he looked at me was like I was already his, and Daniil was already dead and buried. The casual cruelty with which he discussed murdering the father of my child and forcing me to play happy family with his killer.
I bite my lower lip, waiting for Daniil to respond. I can see him processing the information. But beneath the cold analysis, there is a glimpse of something warmer. Something fierce and protective and utterly devoted. The shadows in his eyes darken with promise.
“You're not my weakness,” he declares, his voice quiet and raw with emotion. “You're my reason.”
The words slam into me, stealing what little breath I have left. This is what I needed to hear, what some desperate part of me has been hoping for since the moment I realized I was carrying his child. Not empty promises or hollow reassurances, but truth spoken with absolute conviction.
I let my head fall against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart, feeling the solid warmth of him surrounding me. The world could burn down around us, and I wouldn't move. Couldn't move. This is where I belong, where I've always belonged, even before I knew such belonging was possible.
“I'll kill him for taking you,” he growls into my hair, his voice vibrating against my scalp. “For making you afraid and threatening what's ours.”
The words should horrify me and send me running back to my old life, to safety and sanity and the illusion that monsters don't exist. Instead, they comfort me. Viktor signed his death warrant the moment he put his hands on me. There's a certain peace in that knowledge, a finality that settles my restless spirit.
“I know.”
His breath warms the curve of my neck where he's buried his face. My hands settle at his waist, my fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt like an anchor. I think about everything we've lost, everything we've survived to reach this moment. The betrayal and violence, the separation and terror, the long nights when I thought I'd never see him again.
And now this. This new life growing inside me. This new hope that will bind us together more completely than any legal document or spoken vow ever could.
“I love you,” I whisper, the words carried away on the morning breeze.
He presses his lips to my temple, the kiss reverent and gentle despite the steel in his embrace. “And I love you,krasavitsa.”
And I believe him. I believe in the strength of his arms around me and the determination in his voice. Whatever war still brews in the shadows, we'll face it together. Because I'm not just his fake wife anymore. I'm not just his lover and the woman he saved from his cousin's twisted ambitions. I'm his future, and he's mine.
8
DANIIL
The quiet at the estate is not peaceful. Every hallway, camera feed, and man on my payroll breathes in and waits for my next order. The silence stretches through the corridors laden with anticipation of impending violence. I can feel the tension radiating from every corner of my domain, seeping into the marble floors and climbing the walls until the entire house vibrates with restrained energy.
From my office window, I look at the grounds through bulletproof glass. The gardeners move in their predetermined patterns, trimming hedges and maintaining the illusion of normalcy. At the same time, assault rifles rest within arm's reach of every flowering bush. Security cameras sweep their mechanical arcs, recording shadows and measuring distances between potential threats. Even the fountain in the center courtyard seems to pulse with nervous rhythm, water falling in staccato beats that mirror my own heartbeat.
Lex steps into my office with the ease of a man who has never known guilt. He closes the door with a quiet click and crosses the room with the same steady rhythm he uses for a firefight.His tablet is in one hand, his jaw is clenched, and the scar at his collarbone seems to glow against his black shirt.
I study his face as he approaches. Lex has perfected the art of guarded expression, but I have known him long enough to read the subtle signs. The tightness around his eyes tells me the news is worse than expected. The way he holds his shoulders, fractionally higher than usual, reveals the burden of information he would rather not deliver.
“Report,” I command.
“Viktor has gone dark,” he answers without preamble. “Twelve hours of clean air. Phones cold. Accounts dormant. We pulled traffic cams, toll readers, private garage entries, jet fuel purchase logs, marina slips. Nothing with his signature or his burner pattern either.”
His voice is even, but evenness from Lex is not a promise of calm. It is a scalpel before the cut. I have heard him use this same tone when describing enemy casualties and collateral damage. I lean back in the chair, the leather yielding like a deep breath under my shoulders.
Lex slides the tablet across the desk until it rests within my reach. Satellite shots freeze on empty stretches of interstate, warehouse roofs, and the rectangle of a private airstrip that belongs to a friend who is not as friendly as he thinks he is. Pins bloom on the digital map like a rash, each one representing a dead end, a cold trail, and a question without an answer.
The technology at our disposal would make government agencies weep with envy. Facial recognition software that can identify a target from a quarter mile away. Financial tracking systems that follow money through dozens of shell companiesand offshore accounts. Communication intercepts that can decode encrypted messages in real-time. Yet for all our digital omniscience, Viktor has managed to vanish into thin air.
“Milwaukee,” Lex continues, his finger tracing routes on the screen. “Arms shipment left Lake Michigan last night. The route was clean. The drivers vetted. We had two chase vans, and one decoy truck. Eighty minutes later, the whole convoy disappeared.”
I absorb the information while studying the tactical display. The Milwaukee operation represents months of planning and millions of dollars in inventory. High-grade weapons destined for buyers who pay in cash and never ask questions about serial numbers or legal documentation.
